Chronicles of a Social Outcast
by Twist
Summary: A group of (very) short blurbs on teenaged Havelock Vetinari. These are not meant to be serious, and are OOC. I had fun writing them, so I hope you have fun reading them. :) New short!
1. Mat Ball

Mat Ball  
  
Disclaimer: Havvie, Follet, Downey and Ludo aren't mine. Neither is the Guild. Yay.  
  
Warnings: This happens before the other chapters. One of these days I'll put everything in order. Same warnings for the other two shorts apply.  
  
*  
  
Havelock wanted very, very much to be ill at the moment. He didn't care what it was, just so long as he didn't have to participate in Physical Education with . . . with . . .  
  
"Hello class!" boomed the diminutive female teacher. She was named Madame Swarand and she was a substitute teacher. She was not, in fact, an Assassin, but the administrators insited on bringing her in when the normal teacher was ill due to her abilities to 'show those boys what Games really are.'  
  
She also wasn't a fan of men, which was probably another reason they assigned her to teaching the fifth year boy's Sports class.  
  
"As you may have noticed, you normal teacher isn't here today," she roared happily, "so I have been called in to show you how the children outside the Guild play." She grinned. "It's educational."  
  
Downey snickered; his friends followed suit, as was custom. Havelock look around warily and tried to blend in with the wall. It didn't work; the old biddy had sharper eyes than most Assassins.  
  
"Let's get to it," she called jubilantly. "Anyone volunteer to be team captain?"  
  
Of course, Downey raised his hand first and most enthusiastically. He was always excited at oppurtunities to pelt the smaller and weaker with large objects. The woman called in forward and he stood there grinning like an idiot. Havelock scowled and shrunk further into a shadow.  
  
"No more volunteers?" she asked loudly. Her eyes raked down the line and landed on . . . Brucey. She motioned for the little butterball to come forward.  
  
Brucey was the only student lower on the fifth year food-chain than the 'Dog Botherer'. Fat and delusional, the poor boy thought he was a character out of some Agatean comic book style . . . Animate or something. He routinely assumed poses from the books and constantly drew their characters. He was assuming a pose at the moment, and Havelock couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor kid. No one should have to go through life fat, stupid and delusional.  
  
"Pick your teams!" roared the little midget woman. Havelock despised her.  
  
"Ludo," Downey said confidently. The heavy-set prefect sauntered forward with a blank grin on his face.  
  
And so it went on. Brucey picked the best athletes he could, while Downey picked members of the Bod Squad. The line of boys grew shorter and shorter until Havelock was standing there alone, facing the scrutiny of both captains. The midget-demon reached into her pocket for a coin.  
  
"We'll flip over the extra player," she said absently (and loudly) as she reached around her pockets. Downey laughed.  
  
"Never mind that, Madame. Brucey's team can have him." The red-haried boy sneered at Havelock, who refrained from flipping any rude gestures and slouched off to the other team with whatever remained of his dignity.  
  
"Lucky for us, eh?" Brucey whispered very loudly. "You can run faster than anyone else in the class."  
  
Havelock wanted to die. Very, very badly.  
  
"Yes, lucky," boomed one of Downey's friends that Brucey had snatched up. "Everyone knows the Dog Botherer hates balls. He runs very fast from them." The boy then proceeded to slap Havelock on the shoulder. And probably dislocate the damn thing. Dammit.  
  
"The game is mat ball," the sadistic little woman hollered. "I'm sure you know the rules, but for review you can kick the ball anywhere and have to lap the bases twice. No stopping on home base. Players are safe unless they get tagged by the ball."  
  
"Do headshots count?" asked a rat-like boy that hung around Downey and smelled unpleasant.  
  
"Now, I'm sure you boys won't sink to such a level as that," the psychotic little woman said with a grin.  
  
Helmets should be mandatory, thought Havelock.  
  
And so the slaughter began. Downey's team was pitching. Havelock slunk to the back of the line, realizing that Brucey's teammates were not going to let the other team lose, wittingly or unwittingly. He was right. Three kickers equaled three outs when you were playing for Brucey's team.  
  
Or course, that meant more time in the field for the losing team. Havelock rather liked this idea: he could wander off to deep left and not pay attention. But of course Brucey would take deep left and force Havelock to play first base. Fortunately, no one really kicked a lot of balls over that way so there wasn't much to do until someone else managed to catch the ball, at which point they would hurl it with all their might at Havelock, who's normal reaction to flying objects was to hit the floor.  
  
Watching Brucey did make for some good entertainment, though. At one point the ball flew right to him and Brucey manage to miss it by at least three feet. He posed, snapped his fingers, posed again and cried 'So close!' to the amusement of everyone else.  
  
"Good try Brucey!" Downey had called, causing the poor fool to beam like and idiot.  
  
Eventually though, Downey had to kick. One of his friends was pitching and put it in nice and easy. Downey eyed the thing, took a step back, kicked . . .  
  
The next this Havelock knew he had a bright yellow ball in his hands and was cowering behind it while an extremely angry Downey resumed his place in line.  
  
"Good catch, boy," the evil little woman bellowed.  
  
After the other team had scored an embarrassing 15 runs, Brucey's team had managed to get 3 outs and was back up to kick. Downey's team decided they were unthreatened and unspokenly agreed that it would be funny to make the Dog Botherer kick. Havelock avoided it as long as he could, but eventually the crazy little lunatic forced him to kick. It wasn't as though he was bad at it or anything, just that he was a sitting duck out there. Undefended. Alone.  
  
He made it that way to third base where he hunched against the wall amongst the crowd of boys waiting for the oppurtunity to lap home and sprint back to first. Brucey was up to kick. And kick he did, right into the crowd on third.  
  
It was an unspoken herd reaction. Everyone ran. Even Havelock, who was mainly going along for the look of things. Downey got hold of the ball and fixed his eye on his target. Havelock wondered who was going to inherit his money and posessions. Not that AM$40 and a trunk full of black clothes were highly desireable.  
  
Downey drew back his arm and threw, the bright yellow mass of rubber heading straight for Havelock. So Vetinari did the only thing he could; he took a flying leap into a pack of potentially hostile boys.  
  
The ball did miss him, but he did not miss Stanley Price, who had been standing directly in his path of travel. All 120 pounds of Havelock Vetinari collided with all 210 pounds of the Bod Squad member and knocked both boys and some very close to them to the ground. Havelock immediately rolled off Stanley and prepapred to run. The other boys jumped to their feet, looking very menacing indeed. All except for Stanley, who let out an unDisc-ly wail.  
  
"He's killed me! The Dog Botherer's gone and killed me!" He grabbed his knee and rolled over, moaning. The little substitute rushed over to see if Stanley had fallen victim to an illegaly-carried weapon.  
  
"I didn't even touch his knee," said Havelock, more or less to himself.  
  
"You're alright now, stand up lad," Madame S said in a soothing, loud voice. "The poor boy didn't expect it any more than you did."  
  
"He did!" Stanley yelled, waving a finger in Havelock's direction. "He's always bullied me and targeted me for his vindictive little tricks!"  
  
The teacher looked at Stanley and then to Havelock. Compared to the six- foot-three, 210 pound goliath that was now hobbling around dramtically, Havelock did not cut a very imposing figure. Skinny, pale and with the look of someone who hadn't quite grown into themselves, he truly didn't look anything like one might imagine a bully would look. Which was probably why the angry little woman assumed Stanley was telling the truth and sent Havelock to the headmaster's office.  
  
I'm bleeding, Havelock thought absently, sitting outside the headmaster's office in a wicker chair. He was out of the dreadful Sports uniform and comfortably back into his too-big student uniform. He tried to stop the bleeding while he waited to the headmaster to summon him.  
  
"Vetinari," came the slightly ominous voice. Havelock stood up and walked into the office with a bemused expression. He flopped down into a chair and slouched over, putting pressure on the small but persistent cut and looking generally embrassed.  
  
Doctor Follett looke at Havelock in a slightly disbelieving manner. "Bullying, Vetinari?"  
  
"I wasn't really, sir," Havelock said defensively. "I just kind of jumped and he was just kind of . . . in my way."  
  
Follett studied the boy for a moment before pulling out a roll of gauze. "Would you like a bandage?"  
  
"I'll wait for a bit, thanks," Havelock said neutrally.  
  
"Smart lad," Follett said, placing the gauze back in a drawer with a snap. "Listen Vetinari, I think we both know that there is no possible way you intentionally hurt Stanley Price. He has four inches and 90 pounds on you, for a start." The headmaster leaned back in his chair and stared at Havelock. Havelock stared back until Follett looked away. "How do you get yourself into these messes?" the Doctor asked rhetorically.  
  
"Good question, sir," Havelock said moodily, staring at the floor.  
  
Follett sighed and turned back to the dark-haired teenager. "Just please try and stay out of trouble, would you? I shouldn't think your Aunt would be too happy with me if you didn't survive to see seventh year."  
  
"Yessir," Havelock said. Follett nodded and Vetinari fled the office.  
  
I will never, ever play sports again after I graduate, Havelock swore to himself. Ever. 


	2. The Piercing

Introductory Author's Note (sort of important): Okay, the first time I posted this some people pointed out some things to me. Mainly that this and the next chapter are very OOC and that really they aren't that funny. *bows* Many thanks, as I can explain this now.  
  
This fic and the next are not meant to be a) serious or b) in character. We in the DW fanfiction section have been spoiled by some kick-ass characterization (*waves to Mercator, VimesLady and the rest of the gang*). I should have made a larger note about the fact that this is extremely OOC. I don't even think of these things as anything but sugar-induced speculations. And so, bearing that in mind, I ask the (kind, forgiving, gentle, not homicidal in any way . . . ) readers to read this with the fact that this is supposed to just be FUN in the forefronts of their minds. *bows again* Many thanks.  
  
*  
  
Introduction  
  
Summary: A drabble written in the fever of the night. Teenage!Havelock wants a piercing.  
  
Disclaimer: Wow . . . I think Havelock's the only character in this I don't own. Cool.  
  
*  
  
Bruce Joneson was closing up shop for the night when the teenager stumbled in. He was very drunk, Bruce noted. He also was an Assassin-in-training. Bruce opted his kindest 'I-care-about-the-customer' face.  
  
"What can I do fer ye, boy?"  
  
The boy slumped over the counter and looked Bruce up and down. He licked his lips a few times and continued glancing around the front room.  
  
"Alright, boy?"  
  
"Name's Havelock. Not boy," the Assassin said finally. "Need something." Bruce eyed Havelock warily; the boy was obviously beyond the merry drunkenness portrayed in taven advertisements over the town. He looked ill for a moment before fixing Bruce with the most disturbing stare the man had ever encountered.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Piercing. Need to get pierced." Havelock coughed once before regaining something resembling control of himself. "Gotta get pierced. Dammit Downey."  
  
Bruce watched the boy for a few minutes before walking around to the front of the counter. He gently took the boy under the shoulder with intents of leading him out of the shop. What did it matter if the curfew wagon picked him up; one less problem for Bruce.  
  
Bruce was not prepared when the boy whirled and suddenly there was a dagger in his face. The young Assassin grabbed Bruce's vest to keep himself on two feet.  
  
"Listen up, Mr. Bruce's Wholesale Tattoos and Piercing," Havelock hissed. "I'm very drunk. I'm also an Assassin-in-training with exceptionally low marks in everything. And I'm bloody rich. So either you stick something in me or I'll kill you."  
  
Bruce nodded and put his hands up in a position of surrender. The boy made no sense but he did, in fact, have more than three knives on his person and one of them happened to be in Bruce's face. So Bruce opted for the 'survival' option and took the boy once again under the shoulder. This time, however, he led him into the back room.  
  
"So where would you like a piercing?" Bruce asked caustiously once he had depostied the boy in the reclining chair. Havelock sprawled in it bonelessly. The boy bit his lip and stared at the ceiling for a while. Bruce waited patiently, running his hand over his bald head.  
  
"Two," Havelock said suddenly. "Want two. One in the tongue and . . . and one right here." He pulled up his black shirt and pointed to his navel. Bruce, who usually didn't consider men's bodies beautiful, found himself amazed by the white skin and the six-pack beneath it. It was a thing of beauty. Havelock coughed again and Bruce snapped out of his fascination. "Can you do it?" the Assassin asked.  
  
"Would you like some ice?" Bruce asked.  
  
END  
  
Author's Note: Okay, the first time I posted this some people pointed out some things to me. Mainly that this and the next chapter are very OOC and that really they aren't that funny. *bows* Many thanks, as I can explain this now.  
  
This fic and the next are not meant to be a) serious or b) in character. We in the DW fanfiction section have been spoiled by some kick-ass characterization (*waves to Mercator, VimesLady and the rest of the gang*). I should have made a larger note about the fact that this is extremely OOC. I don't even think of these things as anything but sugar-induced speculations. And so, bearing that in mind, I ask the (kind, forgiving, gentle, not homicidal in any way . . . ) readers to read this with the fact that this is supposed to just be FUN in the forefronts of their minds. *bows again* Many thanks. 


	3. Stacy's Mom

Stacy's Mom  
  
Summary: Teenage!Havelock lusts, his friend thinks he's weird.  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except for Wayne, Stacy and her mom.  
  
*  
  
Havelock Vetinari had nipped out back of the Guild to have some private space. It was a hot day in Ankh-Morpork and he had shed his black student's robes and bunched the sleeves of his white collared shirt up to somewhere around his elbows. He watched the action behind the Guild from a second- story ledge, sitting in the sun. It was rather pleasant actually, he had to admit to himself as he absently chewed on his much-abused pencil.  
  
Havelock tended to be hard on pencils. No one could explain why, but he had a mindless habit of gnawing the poor things to death. He had attempted to break himself of the habit once, but it hadn't worked.  
  
Recently, Mindless Downey had suggested that he pierce his tongue in order to have something to chew on that would hurt. Havelock suspected that Downey's motives were something along the lines of 'watch-the-loser-bite- through-his-tongue' but Havelock had thought it to be disturbingly clever, for Downey. And so he'd gotten really, really drunk one night and had it done. And his navel, on a drunken impulse. It had worked until the piercing had healed, at which point he'd gone back to savaging innocent pencils.  
  
"You're missing Advanced Poisons, dork," someone said, startling Havelock out of his thoughts. He turned around slowly, eyebrow carefully raised.  
  
"So are you," he said pointedly to the boy standing behind him. The other boy was named Wayne Broquelin. From Llamedos, or something. He was of medium height and stocky with fair hair and a frightening amount of freckles. He was also not the most motivated student at the Guild.  
  
"Yes," Wayne said slowly, sitting on the ledge next to Havelock, "but I'm not planning on even taking the final exam."  
  
Havelock snorted. "Your parents payed your way through school and you're not even going to take the final? What are you planning on doing, Mr. Motivation?"  
  
"I'm going to play piano at posh balls and what have you," Wayne replied. "No killing really involved. Oh, and you do get good money." The two boys sat there for a moment before Wayne spoke again. "What are you planning on doing?" The freckled boy watched his counterpart shrug. "Oh, come on. It's our last year here; you ought to have some idea."  
  
"Stay here, maybe," Havelock said faintly. He shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I'll even go with Downey and that bunch on that whole Grand Sneer nonsense."  
  
"You'd kill yourself after the first two days. Don't be daft, Havelock, you'll never be able to get a leg up on Downey and that bunch." Wayne fought back a wince when Havelock sharply turned and icy blue, analytical stare on him. He hated that damn stare.  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"Nothing, gods, keep you pants on." Wayne huffed slightly and Havelock turned back toward the action. Silence reigned for a few moments, slightly less comfortable than the first but in no way uncomfortable enough to dull the pleasant heat of the day.  
  
"Who's that?" Havelock asked suddenly, startling Wayne, who had been cat- napping. He leaned over and pointed vaguely with his pencil.  
  
"The girl?" Wayne asked, squinting slightly. His face was puzzled for a minute, before sliding into a wolfish grin. "Fourth Year. Her name's Stacy, or something. Man, I'd like to do her."  
  
"You and every other male in the school," Havelock muttered distractedly. "Who's next to her?"  
  
"Next to . . .? Oh. That's uh . . . Mrs. Stacy. Her mom," Wayne clarified. He watched Havelock's face for a little before rolling his eyes. "Havelock, you're lusting after a woman who could be your mother."  
  
"But she's not my mother," Havelock said faintly. "She's nice."  
  
Wayne snorted. "Do my eyes decieve me? Is the impassable Havelock Vetinari actually desiring sex of all things? The end is upon us!" Wayne's dramatic wails were cut short when a blowgun whapped him on the back of the head. "Dude! Improper use of equipment!"  
  
"She has got it going on," Havelock said, in his own little world.  
  
Wayne sighed and patted his friend on the back. "You're a sick freak, my friend. You should consider a career in politics." Wayne had braced himself for another smack, but was puzzled to see Havelock's eyes go wide and glaze over. The pencil dangled from his fingers, apparently forgotten. "You alright there?"  
  
"Politics," Havelock muttered. "Politics. Wayne, you're a genius." He practically jumped to his feet.  
  
"What is with you today?" Wayne asked, standing up. He was slightly grouchy about the fact that he was no longer lounging in the sun.  
  
"I have had an epiphany," Havelock said, shrugging his robe back on to his shoulders.  
  
"What?"  
  
Havelock spun around. Wayne was being stared at again, but this time it was with the pyromaniac, "evil genius" glint that he was more used to. "I am going to be the Patrician of this dung heap."  
  
"Well you're certainly batty enough for it," Wayne snapped. He stiffened when Havelock grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. "What the bloody hell was that for?!"  
  
"For giving me the idea!" Havelock said, grinning. "Downey will be under my thumb and the economy and foreign affairs and . . . and it'll be amazing!"  
  
Wayne gave his friend a wary look. "Alright, dude, don't have an orgasm. It's just politics." Then, with a touch of sarcasm he added: "Write me if you need a pianist at your inauguration."  
  
*  
  
Approximately ten years later . . .  
  
*  
  
Wayne wasn't quite making the money he'd envisioned when he left the Guild. True, he was one of the best pianists on the Disk, but turns out posh balls don't pay as well as one might think.  
  
That's why the money came a surprise. AM$15,000 doesn't just show up with a mysterious note attached to it every day. Wayne stared in wonder and lust at the money for a few minutes before his hand weakly picked up the note. It had the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork's seal on the back. His stomach gave a slight lurch. Carefully he cracked the seal and unfolded the letter. He recognized the barely-legible handwriting at once and his face broke into an insane grin when he read the only three words written on the paper.  
  
"Told you so."  
  
END  
  
A/n: Just a brief one-shot to let you all know I'm still among the living. 


	4. Your Mom

A/n: Bonjour, my friends. I have here another installment of the "Chronicles of a Social Outcast'. As usual, it is out-of-character, but not too horribly so, I don't think. It comes somewhere around the 'Stacey's Mom' chapter; either before or after. Whatever; it's up to you all. It also is NOT in the same storyline as 'Final Pains', so don't get them confused, y'hear:) Please enjoy, perhaps take your mind off some of the stuff happening in the big bad real world.

Also, the other chapters have been reorganized so they're kind of in chronological order (though with Havelock, in canon and in fic, chronological order is strictly optional). Just a heads-up.

Disclaimer: Ahaha. Yeah, I got nothin'.

-

Havelock tried not to sigh when Downey grabbed him by the shirt-collar. He suceeded, but only just. Bullying was all well and good, but could Downey honestly not get by the physical part of it? Mental torture was so much more fun, though Havelock suspected Downey was unable to grasp that. Pity, really.

"Looking forward to graduation, Dog-botherer?" Downey asked. Havelock could tell by his voice that the other boy was sneering.

"I suppose," he said neutrally. He felt Downey try to pull him backwards, without much affect. Gone were the days of Downey being the biggest boy in their year; Havelock had finally grown into himself and while Downey was still built more substantially, Havelock had at least three inches on him and what Havelock lacked in bulk, he made up for in wiry strength and unnerving quickness. Deciding he would much rather face his assailant, he turned to Downey, eyebrow carefully raised.

"Amazing you passed your classes," Downey said, chuckling ruefully. His arms were crossed across his broad chest and his red hair was neatly and carefully styled, so as to look fabulous. "I beat you in class rank, though. Pity."

"Did you?" Havelock asked politely. It was false and he knew it; he had the paper in his hand to prove it. Over the past few years he'd slowly started to ace his classes. Carefully though, so as not to arouse suspicion. First he would go from a C to a B and then, much more slowly, to an A. He hadn't had a grade lower than 95 seventh year, which he was personally very impressed with. His teachers had been too, though they'd simply written it off as hard work and the boy maturing a little. They didn't know that Havelock had been testing the system -- seeing if it were possible for a student to be sub-standard the first four years of classes and then pull off number 1 in the class over the last three. It was.

"Of course," Downey scoffed. "I've never failed a class, Dog-botherer. You've never passed one."

"Haven't I?"

Downey began to realize, on an uncharacteristically observant level of his conscience, that something was up. "Well, you have, just not with very good marks," he said firmly, though his confidence was wavering. He wasn't used to his victims questioning him.

"So what _is_ your rank, Downey?" Vetinari asked, mostly for his own amusement. He knew it wasn't higher than his; that was impossible.

"Fifth," Downey said, puffing his chest out a little. Havelock blinked, though he managed to finesse it. Fifth was _good_. He would have been satisfied with fifth. Clearly, there was more to Downey than met the eye. "What'd you get? Last?"

"No," Havelock said, turning around and heading the opposite direction down the corridor. He realized that if Downey heard his actual rank, he would most certainly get the beat-down of his life.

"So what is it?" Downey asked, sneering. He was suddenly at Havelock's shoulder. Havelock realized with some measure of relief that he was not with his gang. Deciding there was nothing for it, he plowed on.

"First," he said. And he kept walking, careful to keep his face immobile. Downey actually froze in his tracks, only to come running up beside the taller boy a few seconds later.

"You're lying," the older boy growled. "Two years ago you were barely getting ninety percents. I know; I looked."

"I know you looked," Havelock said. "But you didn't look in all of my classes, nor did you look over the past two years." He shrugged. "You stopped worrying about it."

"I wasn't _worried_," Downey spat. "As if I'd be worried about _you_. You never even showed up for stealthy movement fourth year."

"Didn't I?"

"_I_ never saw you."

Havelock merely grinned and kept walking. Downey snarled.

"You're a disgrace," he growled. "Noble Assassin, bah. Your mom _bribed_ Folly, didn't she?"

Havelock had been expecting something like this. It was utter falsity, but he still felt a snappy comeback was necessary. "I imagine she did," he said slowly, as Downey grinned, "though it would have been quite difficult, her being dead and all." He hid his smirk as Downey's face fell.

"_No one_ can start passing like that in fifth year," Downey growled. "It's almost impossible!"

Havelock raised a thin finger, planning to say something along the lines of 'Ah but Mr. Downey, _almost_ is the key word there'. He was therefore shocked at himself when, completely spontaneously, he blurted out "Your mom's almost impossible, but I managed that too."

Downey's jaw dropped. Slowly, the color began to rise in his face and his teeth started to clench. "I'll . . . I'll . . ." He was angry beyond words. Havelock, having developed a sterling sense of self-preservation over his years at the Guild, noticed the clenching fists and decided that now was a good time to leave. Thinking minimally this time, he took off at a dead run to his dorm, not stopping until the door was closed and the key had been turned in the lock. He leaned against the door and panted.

Wayne Broquelin, partner-in-crime to Vetinari, looked up from his piano, eyebrows raised. "What's your problem?"

Vetinari looked horrified with himself. "I have 'Your Mom Terrets'," he gasped.

"Whatever," Wayne said, and turned back to his piano.


End file.
